In the heart of the mountains, where the air was crisp and time seemed to move at its own leisurely pace, Garrick lived in isolation.

His cottage, a charming wood and stone structure, sat comfortably among towering trees and gentle winds. It was his sanctuary, one of solitude and simple pleasures.

Already in his seventies, it was here he planned to spend the remainder of his twilight years, and so he had for two placid decades so far. This little slice of comfort—one he'd named 'Respite' —was perfect in his mind. Trading the bustling unknowns of provincial cities for the gentle repose of a spot that hardly ever changed—save for what he wanted to change himself.

Inside his cottage, the warm glow of the hearth illuminated the cozy kitchen, where Garrick stood admiring the fruits of his morning's labor—a loaf of bread unlike any other.

The dough had been mixed by hand, the garlic and plum tomatoes from his own plot, and the spinach, a lush green that only the most tender care could produce. As he slid the loaf out from the oven, the aroma filled the room, a tantalizing blend of grains and fresh vegetables that promised a feast for the senses. The crust was a perfect golden-brown, crisp and crackling under the slightest pressure, promising a delightful texture against the soft, fluffy interior. Garrick placed it on a cooling rack, but not before brushing the top with a light coating of olive oil, the surface glistening. The oil would serve to deepen the flavors, melding the ingredients into a harmony that spoke of sunlit plants and dewy mornings.

“By the gods, I love bread!”

However, Garrick—who considered himself a man of rustic sophistication—would need to wait. A bounty like this would require a pause before enjoying. The perfect spot and a precise atmosphere were important for enjoying bakes made for oneself. There was a ritual to this process, one he wasn’t keen to break simply because of an impatience to sample his own goods.

So, Garrick, carrying the bread on a maplewood cutting board, rounded the cabin, where his gardens bloomed in a riot of colors, with beds of herbs, vegetables, and flowers the man lovingly cared for. They were a mosaic of life, buzzing with bees and fluttering with butterflies, a small man-made wonder carved out of the wilderness. The mere sight of his cultivated beauty each day delighted Garrick, for he was a man whose heart was warmed by natural splendor.

He rested the cutting board next to him in the dirt, enjoying the sunlight in the small yet flourishing plot.

“Alright, I’ve waited long enough,” he muttered. “Time to eat.”

He lifted the breadknife to make the first cut into the bread when he heard a rush of wind. Seemingly from nowhere, a swift, dark shape surged forward and before he could even register what happened, Garrick was left with his knife hovering in midair, staring at an empty bread board.

He blinked.

Then his eyes drifted up where he saw a large raven, nearly chortling with glee, its talons full as it hefted the stolen loaf skyward. Garrick looked on helplessly as the creature struggled with the weight of it before finding its stride and flapping away toward the trees in the distance.

“...my bread,” Garrick muttered sadly.

The raven—something of a habitual pest around these parts—simply cawed back at him tauntingly. Garrick sighed.

“Well,” he said, watching his masterpiece disappear into the woods. “Guess I’ll have to bake two loaves tomorrow…”

With his expected breakfast burgled from his grasp, Garrick had nothing else to occupy his time that morning save but to get to work.

And so he did. The man most knew as ‘that old hermit,' or simply ‘Garrick from the mountains,’ effortlessly hoisted large water cans—each the size of a carriage wheel and filled to the brim with sloshing liquid—and dragged back heavy tarps and nets, muscles rippling under his weathered skin.

His favorite growing pot among the menagerie was a helmet-turned-planter, now home to a thriving tomato plant. It received the old man's meticulous care, for the seeds the tomatoes had sprung from were special. Not just in their nature—though, just seeing the size of the fruit could tell anyone that much—but also because of whom he'd received them from. The thought brought him his most revisited form of joy.

Twyla is going to love these, he thought to himself. His granddaughter had picked these seeds out specifically for him to grow and he was aiming to make sure they were the biggest, juiciest tomatoes ever seen in any province. Though, he figured that by the next time they were able to visit, she wouldn’t even remember the tomatoes. They were several provinces away—practically a whole realm—but he was going to do his due diligence to ensure that when they were finally able to make the trip, he’d be ready. Even if he needed to plant the seeds of this fruit for a dozen generations, he would do it.

As he watered the plant, he observed the droplets sparkling like a myriad of tiny jewels in the morning sun. The water tumbled along the ridge of the helmet before it soaked into the soil, the deep, rich earth perfect for planting. Garrick couldn't help but muse about a time when the helmet had a purpose far removed from its current nurturing role.

But all things come to an end, he thought to himself. The reminder, however brief, was like a storm cloud rolling in over the landscape of his mind, but before it could truly take hold, he banished it to focus on the more calming tasks at hand.

The old man felt revived by this process, reinvigorated, giving back to the life of the earth in a calming and cathartic way. Especially after so much had been taken. This was a nice thought, since he considered that the tomato plant, in return, flourished under his attention. He admired it a bit longer, its fruits oversized, plump, and red, dappled with moisture that shimmered like tiny stars. Then, noticing some of the fruits were getting far too ripe and heavy, he plucked the lowest ones and placed them in a basket atop a pile already threatening to spill over. In only two days he’d already collected enough for it to be considered quite the treasure trove.

Perhaps I can sell them in Maretown? He thought. There would still be plenty for Twyla whenever she comes to visit.

Though, as he considered how he and her father—his son—had parted when last they saw one another…that might still be a ways off.

He’s as stubborn as his mother… Garrick considered. But, he’s also got her sense of forgiveness. He just needs time.

Two years was quite a while—but arguments often had that effect on people, didn’t they? Besides, he wasn’t exactly rushing to Ozara to make amends himself, was he? Perhaps he was equally as stubborn.

As Garrick pruned and watered the remaining plants, there was a rustling in the underbrush nearby. From its depths, a minute form sprang out, pouncing on him gleefully. In a flash, Garrick’s hands were up, catching the little creature in midair as he held it aloft with a laugh.

Ember. The fox’s bright sienna coat stood out vividly against the lush surroundings as she playfully struggled to break out of his grasp, nibbling harmlessly on his hands in a demand for release.

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“Where’d you get off to, Ember?” he wondered, finally placing the fox in the grass where she immediately began to tumble into a somersault, urging him to play with her. He smirked.

“You’re fearsome, today, eh?” he wondered aloud. Ember paused at his words and then flashed her fangs at him as if to emphasize his statement. Then she pounced on him again, settling for simply tugging at the corner of his pant leg with her teeth.

“Easy, easy, now, foul beast,” Garrick mocked before reaching down and ruffling the fur on her head affectionately. “Save it for the moles that keep finding their way into the strawberry patch.”

She was obviously feeling quite playful this morning, so Garrick decided it was time for a bit of a walkabout. He stood, wandering away from the garden and Ember trailed behind. Garrick was happy for her companionship, noticing as she stayed close to his side, never drifting too far from his sight. That feeling was especially prominent in the evenings when the little fox would curl up next to him while he read from his favorite books or looked up at the stars. Garrick often found himself talking to Ember as if she could understand every word, and in many ways, it seemed she did. She was a listener to his thoughts and a dutiful, loyal helper. Quite a fox, she.

Garrick crossed the clearing surrounding the cottage, where stood a robust woodshed he’d constructed in his second year at Respite. As he entered, examining the interior, he noticed a rotten plank that would need to be mended. The structure was made from the sturdy pines of the surrounding forest, but even stubborn wood wouldn’t last from the shoddy fabrication of inexperience. He crossed the room to the tall cupboard which sheltered an assortment of tools, each hanging in its designated place, as his orderly nature would not abide a mess. The rotten plank wasn’t the only issue, as the shed was quite weathered, having endured many a winter's wind and summer's storm. It would only take one more gale blowing through the mountains to strip the roof, and Garrick planned on extensive repairs.

If that shipment of enchanted paint of preservation ever comes, he thought to himself. His last remaining can of the stuff was nearly empty, and there was no use in doing half a job.

Still, he returned his tools to the cupboard and closed it up, heading back to the cottage to wash the grime from his hands in the kitchen basin.

A short while later, Garrick ambled away from the cottage along the stone-lined path that meandered through the woods. Ember followed along behind him, though she frequently broke away, distracted by leaves or interesting-looking bugs that required her immediate attention. Out of sight, the way slithered down the hills and led to a clear, babbling stream. The old man loved the path, which he’d laid himself. It was bordered by wildflowers and ferns, creating a serene walkway and invitation to wander. The stream itself was a crystal ribbon, its waters calm and sweet, where Garrick often went to fetch water, fish, or simply to sit and listen to the bubbling song of the current over rocks.

For a time, he slowly chased Ember along in the grass, the wind ruffling the both of them as they moved. The fox playfully stopped and waited each time she drew too far from Garrick, only continuing forward when he’d caught up again—though Garrick took the occasional rest just to admire the scenery. He stopped, stretched, and stared off at the higher elevation of the surrounding bluff whereupon a windmill stood tall and proud against the backdrop of the mountains. This idyllic structure was a labor that had taken Garrick five years to complete. Its sails turned slowly in the mountain breeze, churning—at the moment—nothing within. But, come winter, it would be at work milling grain.

As the path looped back toward the cottage, they reached a clearing where the previously-harvested basket of tomatoes still sat, ready to be used for upcoming meals or stored for later. It was here that Ember—having reached her limit of energy—collapsed into a tired ball in the verdant grass, signifying an end to their play—for the moment. Garrick found himself growing thirsty.

“Time for tea,” he said, and scooped the half-sleeping creature up and carried her along toward the cottage.

However, it was then that the calm was shattered by a raucous squawking.

Garrick looked up to see the raven from before, darting through the air with unprecedented speed, its usual arrogance replaced by sheer panic. A shadow loomed large, and as Garrick's eyes adjusted, another form came into focus. Gray scales shimmering menacingly in the sunlight. An elongated nose that resembled a crocodile’s. A rock dragon.

Known to reside in the mountains but rarely seen, the dragon was an imposing sight, its eyes narrowed and mouth open in anticipation of catching the raven.

Garrick watched, a tightness forming in his chest. Despite the raven's earlier larceny, the sight of it in distress stirred something within him. Rock dragons killed their prey nastily, which was by bashing them against the hardest surface they could and then following up by tearing pieces out of their body while whatever poor creature it was was still alive.

No creature deserves such a fate, he thought, not even a brazen nuisance and no-good bread thief.

He gently placed Ember down in the grass, away from any potential danger. Then, he reached for the nearest weapon at his disposal—a ripe tomato from the basket by his feet. He weighed it in his hand, feeling its heft and firmness, then with a practiced eye, he tracked the dragon's flight path.

In one fluid motion, Garrick cocked his arm back and launched the tomato. It hurtled through the air with the force of a trebuchet missile, a red blur against the backdrop of the mountains. The tomato struck its target with unerring accuracy, hitting the rock dragon just beneath its left wing.

The impact was immediate and dramatic. The dragon, caught off guard by this unexpected assault, jackknifed in midair. It let out a surprised screech as the force of the blow sent it veering off course, crashing into the mountain face some hundred feet away with a thud that echoed through the valley. Rock smoke billowed into the air where the creature collided with the stone.

Garrick stood, arm still extended from the throw.

“...shit,” he whispered. He’d used too much force again and though he only meant to dissuade it…he might’ve killed the damn thing.

However, after a moment, Garrick saw movement within the mist of debris and watched as the dragon shook off the blow and, with a wary glance in his direction, apparently decided that the raven was no longer worth the trouble. The beast took off, disappearing into the crags of the mountain, leaving behind a cloud of dust and a very bewildered, very relieved raven. Still, despite how that had seemed for a moment, it would deter the rock dragon from coming around here. There were few creatures more aggravating to deal with than a flying lizard that thought it found good hunting ground—and Garrick didn’t need to be worrying about his little fox.

Garrick cast a glance at Ember, expecting to see her active and alert, but the fox was, surprisingly, still fast asleep—completely unbothered by the commotion.

The raven, after regaining its composure, circled back, landing a safe distance from Garrick. He wasn’t sure, but the bird seemed to eye him with gratitude.

Garrick merely nodded, a small smile pulling on the corners of his lips.

"Off you go, then. And no more stealing my bread," he said, though he knew well enough the raven understood none of it. With a final caw the raven took to the skies once more, leaving Garrick alone with his thoughts and the quiet majesty of the mountains.

The old man picked his fox up once more and headed back toward his cottage, and, despite his error in trajectory-judgment, couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

“Yep. I’ve still got it,” he chuckled.

As he made his way back, he passed what might be considered by any visitor to be the most significant feature of Respite—a massive, fifteen-foot sword that stood upright like a looming specter, its wide blade partially buried in the earth near the edge of the clearing. This colossal blade, overgrown with vines and weeds, seemed almost as if it had grown from the earth itself. With its rusting hilt and the wild flora claiming it, the weapon was very much the picture of an ancient sentry, standing guard over this peaceful sanctuary. Despite this, the old man hardly even noticed the thing anymore save for the occasions where Ember used it for shade during hot, sunny days.

Finally, after that rare bit of excitement, Garrick settled on his porch with a cup of tea. As he sipped, his gaze wandered over his mountain landscape.

"Ah…" he sighed. "Another beautiful day. Eh, Ember?"

He looked down at his companion, but she was still asleep in his lap where he’d placed her. Garrick chuckled, leaning down and scratching the slumbering fox under the chin before returning to his tea.

“I can’t imagine a single thing that would ever make me want to leave this beautiful peace and harmony,” he said, despite knowing that saying something like that was a bad omen. However, Garrick wasn’t a man doomed by superstition. He’d faced quite a lot in his life, so a little turn of phrase wasn’t anything to get worked up about. Right?

He paused, feeling a strange sensation wash over him. Was that the latent astara around him? Why did saying that suddenly nibble at his heart like vermin at a root, and why did he get the sense he’d regret those words? He pet the fox on his lap, reaching for her warmth, trying to banish the ill omen. There was nothing wrong with words.

“Nope…” he said, eyeing the grandeur of his garden, the rolling trees beyond, and the soaring mountains beyond even that. “...nothing at all.”

A chill breeze suddenly blew over him, and Garrick shivered.